


Vested Interest

by anthean



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bodyswap, Canon Era, Gen, Waistcoats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/pseuds/anthean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prouvaire, upon finding his body and Bahorel's mysteriously transposed, is paralyzed in philosophical agony; Bahorel's concerns are more prosaic.</p>
<p>Or, ~400 words of canon era bodyswap silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vested Interest

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for tumblr user afamiliardog.

Bahorel pauses from trying to button his waistcoat and casts a glance at the corner, where Prouvaire sits frozen in existential dread. A few whispers emanate from Prouvaire’s direction, although his mouth doesn’t appear to be moving. If Bahorel listens, he can catch “…the soul unmoored from the body…immensity of…and transduced by… _eternity_ …”  
  
Dismissing this as transient nonsense, Bahorel gives up on his own waistcoat—bright red, with gold detailing and lapels sharp enough to put out an eye—and begins to look for the least unacceptable of Prouvaire’s. They’re much of a height, but differ in build: Bahorel’s fashionable figure owes more to careful maintenance than corsetry, but while Prouvaire’s legs are in beautiful trim from his meandering walks about the city his middle has an unfortunate tendency towards pudge. Despite Bahorel's valiant efforts, he has concluded that his own clothes will never fit Prouvaire’s body. He trips on air as he crosses the room and nearly does a mischief to a large harp leaned against the chaise lounge—Bahorel prides himself on his athleticism, but his skills have not quite adapted to their unexpected new habitation.  
  
He reaches the wardrobe and surveys his options grimly. “Prouvaire,” he finally calls across the room, “all this costumery is unacceptable. Your insistence on medievalism is worthy, but it has left me _nothing to wear_.” Bahorel unhooks a green velvet doublet and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, eyes its puffed and slashed sleeves mournfully.  
  
The stream of whispers from the corner ceases, as a current of spiritual uncertainty suddenly dammed by base physicality. “ _Your_ insistence on clinging to bourgeois notions of style even when confronted with the infinite is reprehensible,” Prouvaire snaps.  
  
Bahorel listens with delight to his own voice, near unrecognizable but still pleasing when heard outside his skull. “Poor Prouvaire, to have so grievously misunderstood me despite our long years of friendship.” Bahorel considers the doublet again, then shrugs it on. If he can’t shock them with his lapels, he’ll do it another way. Crossing the room without tripping this time, he picks up his discarded waistcoat and throws it at Prouvaire. “Put that on. No, no arguments,” he says, catching Prouvaire’s rebellious look. “We must all make sacrifices in pursuit of truth, and besides, it looks far better on me than this doublet would. Come, we will hunt down Combeferre and Joly and see if we can’t induce a scientific crisis. Have you ever seen Combeferre at a loss for words? No, nor I, but I suspect this will do the trick.”


End file.
